There be who say, in these enlightened days,That splendid lies are all the poet's praise;That strained Invention, ever on the wing,Alone impels the modern Bard to sing:'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write,Shrink from that fatal word to Genius — Trite;Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,And decorate the verse herself inspires:This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE attest;Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.